It was bound to happen, this change, this transformation, this veritable paradigm shift. After four years of living in Miami Beach, and passionately defending it's detractors and defamers, I am done. This city has worn my patience down to a nub. Let it be known that I tried, oh yes I did, to see the silver lining in this beautiful, vapid, souless city.

The story unfolded this morning, when I received a harried phone call from my client's wife. Let's call her "Maria Conchita." So Maria, bless her little heart, is originally from Argentina, and is 30 going on 15. My proud client had shown me photos of her. He favorite was one of her clutching her prize-winning French poodle, makeup spackled on her face, beaming beautifically at the camera like the Whore of Babylon. "Ees beautiful, my wife. Ees most important to me in my life." I smiled and nodded. This is standard protocol for when I don't care, but have to.

So, Maria called me and was hysterically crying. She had arrived at the Miami airport today, and was going to meet her husband and I for lunch on Lincoln Road. Apparently, the cabbie had driven her from MIA to Lincoln Rd without turning on his meter. What should have been a $40 cab ride, magically turned into a $85 one. Her husband was running late, and asked her to call me, because "Be-berly will take care of 'choo."

Her sobs were audible between her complaints. "I dun know what to do! He say he no let me out until I pay him $85! I no have $85 cash!"

Blood thundered in my veins. If there is one thing that I have grown to hate in my four years here, it's unsuspecting tourists being ripped off by shyster Miami types. It's the principle of it all. You half expect to be taken for a ride in any new place that you visit, particularly if it is renowned for being a famous vacation spot. However, to be cheated of your money, and then to have to contend with that signature surly Miamian attitude, as if it is your fault for wasting their time, by having them perform the service that they were supposed to perform... well, I took off, heels pounding furiously, toward Lincoln and Washington, where Maria was currently being held hostage by the cabbie.

I ran up to the cab and pounded on the door. He yelled out through the window, "Not taking passengers!"

"I don't want a ride! Let her out!"

I was struggling with the door handle. The door was locked. Cabbie was still yelling at me. I reached in through the open window on the front passenger's seat, and unlocked her door. It occurred to me then that she could easily have let herself out. Then I remembered that my client probably didn't marry her for her stellar intelligence.

She stumbled out like a baby pigeon, makeup running, visibly shaken. She handed me her sweaty wad of $40, which I immediately thrust at the cabbie.

"Thas' fo'ty, thas' fo'ty. Cab ride cost eighty five!"

"It's not eighty five! A cab ride from the airport to Lincoln Rd costs forty, max!"

"Eighty five dollas, and I ain't leavin' till I get it!"

"No, you're leaving now. With your forty dollars. Here, take it."

"I ain' leavin' till I get dat eighty five thas' comin to me."

I snapped. $16 martinis, overpriced condos, shady Israeli landlords, Bell South technician offering to cut me a "deal," surly parking attendants, 45 minute wait for food, Cuban time, "Ees not my yob, meng!" Fuck you, Miami. I've had enough. All my pent up frustration was released in a bloodcurdling scream:

"I'MA CALL DA PO'LICE!"

The cabbie froze. What was this? Crazy Asian chick, still in her work clothes, waving her hands up and down like a rabid marrionette, with the ghost of Bernie Mack talking through her?

"I'mma call da police! You mothafuckas are done ripping people off! I'mma call, and da po'lice gon' come right now! They gon' take yo' liscence away! You goin' in da JOINT."

I proceeded to fake-dial 911, pausing to glower at him between each number for maximum dramatic effect.

He got in his cab in a huff and drove off, but not before yelling some choice obscenities at me.

Everything that I thought was charmingly dysfunctional about Miami before, has slowly given way to an almost Nazi-like impatience with the systemic inequities that keep our our city from truly being world-class. The very city of Miami Beach is much like it's famed cache of gold-digging women: it doesn't work, it only stands for hedonism, and it is hopelessly incapable of standing on it's own two feet. But it sure is pretty, and pretty makes up for a variety of sins.

Do letters of complaint, grassroots activism, and community uproar work in Miami? Maybe. But if you want quick results, "I'mma call da police!" is the way to go.

Yup, I think it's time to move. Ay, Miami! Te quiero you no' mo'.

I am getting married in 5 months to the love of my life. We ordered my wedding ring last night. Tiny diamonds, placed side-by-side, encircling my ring finger, the one that the Romans thought led directly to the heart. It's a nice thought. I look down at my engagement ring sometimes, and wonder if there really is a metaphysical connection. There isn't. I know, because I looked it up on the Wiki. That makes me really fucking weird, but my guy doesn't mind, loves me for it, even.

To be engaged, is to be engaged, in every sense of the word. You're past the "This is Fun For Now" phase. Dealt with the "Could Be Something Real" stage. To be engaged is to be fully present. Wholly real, flawed, open, vulnerable. This is never easy. We all have secrets from our past that we'd rather not bring up. The horrible, guilt-ridden, dirty ones that we'd rather take to our grave. "It" happened in the past, and "we" are happening in the present and future. There is no use tainting the latter with the knowledge of the former. We're best friends! We're in love! The present and future will take care of itself!

Or so one would think. My biggest lesson about love and marriage so far, is that being engaged doesn't just begin and end with the engagement period that precedes a wedding. It begins and ends every morning when you wake up, and ends when you curl up in bed each night. Every night. A truly engaged couple doesn't just do the bare minimum that it takes to get along. They work hard. Checking in periodically, saying what needs to be said - even when it hurts, being humble and setting your own ego aside, celebrating and mourning alongside your beloved - all this takes work. It is only by doing so that you are truly engaged. Not because you have a ring on your finger, and a fabulous wedding to plan. But because at the end of the day, you still feel lucky to be his. No matter how hard it gets, you would still gladly choose each other. Engaging your heart, your mind, and your spirit, and enmeshing it with his - that's what it means to be engaged.

So, while I'm busy perusing favor bags and monogrammed stickers, and debating the virtues of silk organza versus damask, my mind is clear. All this is ephemeral. We're not working toward some lofty ideal of what "true love" means, the kind that is featured by Vanity Fair, in their power couples section. We already have something that many people search all their lives for. Someone who loves you, only you, no matter what. This is why, even after the band stops playing, the caterers clear the food away, and the flowers wilt, we will not only be married. We will still, and always be engaged. Forever.